Mum’s receiving intensive/critical care in Kingston General following a heart attack on Thursday. There is a strangely relaxed atmosphere in the unit where patients are battling life threatening health problems.
My mother is now on a stronger antibiotic because the previous one was not working on the infection around her heart and lungs. She remains modestly courageous, wincing with the pain in her back and shifting her position to try and get confortable sitting up. She referred to the insertion of at least six needle lines as the “extensive torture” she had to endure, but remains talkative and fully alert although very tired.
It was great to see her wolf down scrambled egg yesterday evening. She likes decent coffee and when Liam checked with the nurse if that was alright, he was told she could have anything she wanted. Mum then interjected “whisky?”. The whisky request was repeated just before the end of visiting hours. My brother arriving from Heathrow had a litre of malt in his case. When we gently refused to pour her a small measure she admonished me “you wouldn’t refuse a dying woman a drop of whisky would you?” My answer was that if she stopped dying I’d get her a whisky.